Master Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  Outside, it was a mild evening, starless under heavy cloud cover and no sign of the moon at all, though Drew could still feel its sway, even without seeing it.

  “It is going to rain later,” Marguerite said as she climbed into the carriage in front of him and settled herself down. “That is good.” Rain meant fewer people around when they shifted and ran. She added wistfully, “I only wish Lindsay could come with us.”

  The reminder that Lindsay couldn’t shift at all made Drew’s stomach drop. In his mind’s eye he saw Lindsay’s ulcerated arm again. The poison poultice, a dark shadow under the linen bandage wrapped around his arm.

  Drew’s throat ached with emotion and he was aware of Marguerite’s eyes on him, assessing but saying nothing.

  The journey to the Assembly Rooms was, at least, mercifully short, and soon enough, their carriage was drawing up outside. A footman stepped forward to open the door, but Drew jumped out and waved him aside, stepping forward to hand Marguerite out himself. She stepped down with regal daintiness, firmly back in the role of spoiled, beautiful Mrs. Niven.

  They found themselves in a crowd of assembly-goers, all moving towards the doors.

  “I am impatient to dance,” Marguerite said conversationally as they progressed slowly forward. “I do hope you are going to be obliging, mon amour.” Evidently she was already firmly ensconced in her role.

  “I am very confident you will manage to fill your dance card without my assistance, darling,” Drew replied, drawing her arm through his and patting her hand where it rested on his forearm. “Ah, here we are.”

  They had reached the entrance now. Drew handed their vouchers to the doorman who stood aside to permit them entry.

  Inside, the atrium blazed with candles and the strains of the orchestra drifted down from the floor above. A few patrons milled at the bottom of the staircase and Drew nodded politely to them as he guided Marguerite past them.

  “Do you think Lindsay and Wynne will have arrived?” Marguerite asked as they ascended the stairs. “I cannot scent them.”

  “Nor can I,” Drew said. “Shall we take a turn about the ballroom?”

  Marguerite nodded.

  The crowd was moderately but not uncomfortably busy. The small orchestra appeared to be taking a break and patrons milled about in groups, chattering and laughing. Couples promenaded around the ballroom, nodding to their acquaintances as they passed.

  Drew and Marguerite were attracting some discreet attention. It wasn’t entirely surprising given that they were new in town and that Marguerite was absurdly beautiful—not to mention the fact that she was wearing a gown rather more daring than most of the ladies’, with the bustline cut a little lower and the hem a little higher. Her pale skin shone like moonlight against the deep red silk.

  By the time they had completed one circuit of the large room, the orchestra players were picking up their instruments and beginning to blow and scrape and tune. The leader conferred briefly with another fellow who announced to the patrons that the next dance would be a foursome reel. Drew glanced questioningly at Marguerite.

  “Do you want to dance?”

  “Not really. At least not with you—no offence. I will save my slippers till they are needed. I want to stroll round again.”

  They went around the perimeter one more time, pausing halfway for a glass of weak, warm punch which Marguerite pronounced abominable, before continuing on their way.

  It was as they approached the ballroom doors again, that Drew’s attention was caught. He wasn’t even sure what it was that made him turn his head—he hadn’t scented Lindsay and clearly Marguerite hadn’t either—but suddenly Drew felt certain that Lindsay was there, and sure enough, when he glanced to the right, there Lindsay was, standing alone in the wide, open doorway to the ballroom, half-turned away from them, gazing in the other direction as he leaned heavily on his cane.

  Drew’s heart twisted.

  Lindsay looked so frail.

  He had always carried a cane, but until now, he had never used it for support.

  As though he sensed Drew’s attention, Lindsay turned his head, and their eyes met. It was like being struck by an arrow, something sharp and swift and painful punching into Drew’s chest. And when Lindsay smiled—that uniquely sweet smile he only ever gave Drew—Drew wanted to howl with grief, his wolf scrabbling at his edges with desperate claws.

  “There he is,” Marguerite murmured in Drew’s ear. She waved at Lindsay, who after a moment waved back, gesturing that he’d walk around the perimeter to meet them.

  Marguerite immediately gestured back that he should stay where he was and grabbed Drew’s arm, pulling him forward. “He looks ready to fall over,” she muttered as she towed him through the crowd.

  As they got closer, Drew noticed that the left sleeve of Lindsay’s coat was pinned up and his ulcerated arm was in a sling. He did not appear at all well. Pale and thin and yes, weak. But still shining with whatever it was that made him Lindsay. Still with that mischief in his eyes that made him seem always to be amused by something.

  Still damned near irresistible.

  “He should be sitting down,” Drew muttered. “Aren’t there any chairs in this damned place?”

  “All taken,” Marguerite replied, pointing at the cluster of mostly older ladies who had commandeered the two rows of chairs set up on the opposite side of the ballroom from the orchestra. The old ladies chattered contentedly as their charges progressed through the steps of another country dance, the feathered plumes on their heads nodding.

  Despite his obvious physical pain, Lindsay’s smile deepened as Drew and Marguerite reached him. “You came,” he observed. “I hoped you would.”

  “Did you doubt me?” Marguerite replied haughtily, offering her hand. “I am insulted!”

  He chuckled, raising her fingers to his lips and depositing a kiss. “Never, my love.”

  “Hmmm,” she replied, casting him an unconvinced look. "Where is Wynne?”

  “Attending to some business,” Lindsay said vaguely, with a wave of his hand. “He will join us shortly.”

  “And our Mr. Begg? Is he here?” I am eager to make his acquaintance.”

  Lindsay raised his brows in query, inviting more.

  “We have reason to think he may be a person of some interest to us, so I was delighted to get your note.”

  “I rather thought he might be,” Lindsay said. “He’s a wily old fox. If there’s a chance of making some money doing town business, he will be sure to be involved. And yes, he’s here. I saw him on my way in. He’ll be up soon enough, I expect. If we station ourselves near the door, we can get the introduction out of the way as soon as possible and you can start working on charming him—he’s rather susceptible to female charms.” He winked at her, grinning, and the lively twinkle in his eye was achingly familiar. It had infuriated Drew sometimes, that twinkle. The way Lindsay laughed at everything and didn’t take a God-damned thing seriously.

  Drew used to think it was sheer frivolity that made Lindsay behave like that. But now, here, he saw something else in it. A kind of courage, an indomitability. Despite everything, that spark of his was still there and Drew felt the strangest… pride to see it.

  “What about this Bainbridge fellow?” Drew asked. He even managed to sound halfway normal.

  “Bainbridge, yes, Wynne mentioned him,” Lindsay said. “I’ve not met him, but we can track him down when Wynne gets here.” He glanced between Drew and Marguerite. So, how did things go at the City Chambers today? Did you see the skeleton?”

  “Briefly,” Marguerite said. “Drew got a better look than I did.” She proceeded to recount the events of the day, making Lindsay laugh with her account of bewitching the unfortunate Mr. Muir.

  “You siren,” he said fondly. “Did you have him snuffling about your ankles like a little pig?” His dark eyes gleamed with humour and appreciation.

  Such a charmer, Drew thought helplessly. He’d thought as much during their very first meeting
thirty-odd years ago when Drew had first clapped eyes on him, a vision in a pink striped coat and Nile green knee breeches. He smiled, remembering that colourful coat, and Lindsay’s carefully teased hair and made-up face. He’d looked like the worst sort of popinjay and yet some part of Drew had known even then there was more to Lindsay Somerville than met the eye.

  “What was it like?” Lindsay asked him now. When Drew met his gaze blankly, he prompted, “The skeleton?”

  It took Drew a moment to realise that he was asking about Cruikshank’s bones.

  He cleared his throat. “Odd. Misshapen. Plainly not human.” He paused. “Difficult to explain away.”

  Lindsay nodded, understanding. The shadows under his eyes were dusky violet smudges and there were grooves at the side of his mouth that spoke of pain. It hurt Drew to see that, a deep twisting pain that made his wolf whimper.

  “Ah now, here we are,” Lindsay said, his voice low. “Begg is coming.”

  Drew looked up to see a large, florid man entering the ballroom. His suit seemed barely to contain him, the buttons of his gold-embroidered waistcoat straining over his barrel chest and capacious stomach. His cravat points were high, forcing him to lift his jowly chin, and the folds of his fussily tied neckcloth frothed about his fat neck. His face was as pink as an end of boiled ham and his journey up the stairs had left him with a sheen of sweat that he began to mop away with a large handkerchief, taking care not to touch his hair, which was sparse and carefully combed to cover as much of his head as possible.

  At his side was another man, his opposite in every way. He was around the same height as the large man, but his sparse leanness made him seem shorter somehow. He was neat and inconspicuous—the sort of man who went unnoticed, everything about him average and unremarkable. Mouse-brown hair, pale eyes, nondescript features.

  Lindsay began to walk towards them. His right hand on the cane was white-knuckled with effort and he moved slowly. Drew glanced at Marguerite and she met his gaze with an expression he thought must mirror his own, a bleak sort of anger in the dark depths.

  He offered her his arm. She laid her own upon it and they fell in behind Lindsay.

  “Mr. Begg,” Lindsay said as they drew closer to the two men. “How are you this evening?”

  “Tolerably well, Mr. Somerville,” Begg said in a slightly strangled sounding voice that made Drew wonder how tight his cravat was. “And you?”

  “I can’t complain,” Lindsay said. He gestured in Drew and Marguerite’s direction. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Niven, and his lovely wife.” Turning to Drew he said, “Mr. Begg is a Bailie of the Town Council and—I hope he will not mind me saying so—its unacknowledged leader.”

  Mr. Begg evidently did not mind as he smiled in a self-satisfied way.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Begg,” Drew said. “Or should I address you as Bailie Begg?”

  Begg gave a gracious inclination of his head. “Mr. Begg will do very well,” he said. “I do not like to stand on ceremony.” He turned to Marguerite then and his eyes gleamed with appreciation, lingering too long on her beautifully framed bosom.

  “And Mrs. Niven. You grace us with your beauty this evening.”

  Marguerite gave a trill of laughter, saying in a thick accent, “You flatter me, monsieur.”

  “You are French, madame?” Begg enquired of her bosom.

  “Oui,” she confirmed. “Or perhaps I should say Scots-French now?” She glanced at Drew and gave a coquettish smile.

  Drew tried to look suitably enamoured and said. “I should hope so, now that you are married to me. After all, when we first met you introduced yourself as an Italian.”

  “Did I?”

  “You most certainly did.”

  Marguerite glanced at Begg, who managed to drag his eyes briefly upwards. “My first husband was Italian, Monsieur Begg. I was quite heartbroken when he died and had vowed never to marry again, but then, you see, I met Mr. Niven.” She darted a glance at Begg from under her lashes and said breathlessly, “I could not help myself. I am—have always been—ruled by my passionate nature.”

  Begg swallowed hard, the movement of his throat discernible even through the folds of his cravat. Drew hid his amusement behind a blank expression. Marguerite was very good at this.

  The man at Begg’s side cleared his throat softly, causing Begg to glance at him as though he’d forgotten he was there.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I am forgetting Mr. Bainbridge.” He gestured at the nondescript man, clearly considering that was all the introduction that was required.

  Drew resisted the urge to glance at Lindsay or Marguerite. He watched, expressionless, as Lindsay bowed in Bainbridge’s direction, offering a charming smile. “You will forgive me, Mr. Bainbridge, if I do not offer my hand. As you can see, I am somewhat incapacitated this evening.” He flapped his arm in its black silk sling and briefly lifted his cane.

  “Of course,” Bainbridge said smoothly, returning his nod. “Mr. Somerville, is it?”

  “Yes, indeed. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  “And you,” Bainbridge said. He turned to Drew. “Mr. Niven.” This time he did offer his hand, and Drew took it, murmuring more pleasantries. His handshake was as unremarkable as the rest of him.

  “And Mrs. Niven,” he said finally, offering Marguerite a deep bow. “It is an honour to make your acquaintance.”

  “Charmed,” Marguerite said and smiled brilliantly at him, making him blink, as though dazed.

  “So, Mr. Begg,” Drew said. “You are the leader of the Town Council. That is a position of considerable importance.”

  Begg puffed up at that. “I do my best to serve the town and its people,” he said piously.

  Judging by the rings on his pudgy fingers and the gold watch chain stretched across his middle, he wasn’t doing too badly out of the bargain, Drew thought.

  “And Monsieur Bainbridge?” Marguerite prompted. “Are you also a town official?”

  Bainbridge shook his head. “Not I,” he said, but he did not offer any further information.

  Lindsay said, “Mr. Niven was at the City Chambers earlier today, weren’t you, Niven? He was viewing that gruesome thing they dug up near St. Cuthbert’s.”

  “The skeleton?” Begg asked, chuckling. “That pile of bones has certainly provoked a deal of interest. Don’t you agree, Bainbridge?”

  Bainbridge inclined his head in assent. “It is a very interesting specimen.”

  Marguerite grasped Bainbridge’s forearm. “Mon Dieu, have you seen it too?” she gasped. “It is horrible, is it not? I thought I would faint!”

  Bainbridge carefully disengaged his arm. “I am a scientist, madame. I daresay we see these things rather differently than other people.”

  “You’ve seen it too?” Drew said. “What did you think of it? Do you think it’s genuine?”

  “Of course it’s genuine!” Begg blustered. “It’s in exactly the same condition now as it when it was found!”

  Drew opened his mouth to assure Begg he hadn’t meant to suggest there had been any interference with the specimen but before he could speak, Bainbridge said mildly, “I’m sure Mr. Niven meant no insult, Mr. Begg, and it’s a perfectly reasonable question. With such an unusual specimen, the collector’s mind naturally seeks to eliminate all other possible explanations before accepting what his eyes appear to be telling him.”

  “Indeed,” Drew murmured in agreement. “However, I apologise if I offended you, Mr. Begg. It was not my intention.” He felt stupid—was he flushing? He was no good at this playacting stuff.

  Begg nodded stiffly.

  “As to your question, Mr. Niven,” Bainbridge continued in his colourless voice, “Yes, I think the bones are quite genuine. However, I do not believe them to be the bones of a monster. My view it is the skeleton of a man who was suffering from a very rare condition I have seen one instance of before, during my travels in Ireland.”

  “What
sort of condition?” Lindsay asked.

  “A very distressing one. The man suffered from a gross degree of overgrowth of his skull and limbs, giving him a hideously malformed appearance. The poor gentleman’s head was twice the size of a normal man’s and of the most horrifying countenance I think I have ever laid eyes upon. It was only when we examined him after his unfortunate death, that we discovered the extent of the bone malformation.”

  Bainbridge’s gaze was cool—he seemed to Drew unmoved, despite the words of apparent sympathy.

  “You are a doctor then, Mr. Bainbridge?” Lindsay asked.

  Bainbridge gave a wintry smile. “I am not a medical man,” he said. “But I pursue a number of—scientific interests.”

  “And you also wish to acquire that awful… thing?” Marguerite asked, with a theatrical shudder. “Ugh, I cannot comprehend why you gentlemen seem so fascinated with it! C’est morbide!”

  “You’re perfectly right, my dear,” Lindsay said. “And if I wasn’t incapacitated I’d invite you to dance to spare you this conversation, but as you can see I’m something of an invalid this evening. Perhaps one of the other gentlemen would oblige?”

  Begg appeared torn. He plainly liked the idea of getting closer to the lovely Marguerite, but given how high his colour was merely from standing still, he’d likely keel over if he attempted so much as a slip step.

  Before he could decide, Marguerite leapt into the fray. “Oh, would you, Mr. Bainbridge?” she gushed. “I have been longing to dance and Monsieur Niven simply will not oblige me. I do not know why I married such a selfish creature!” She followed that up with a hot look at Drew that suggested she’d had very good reasons for her decision, possessed herself of a wide-eyed Bainbridge’s arm and marched him away towards the dance floor, where the last dance had just finished.

  The remaining gentlemen watched them leave in silence.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so,” Begg said at last, “Mrs. Niven is a remarkably lovely woman.”

  Drew made a polite murmur, by way of accepting the compliment.

  “So, Niven,” Lindsay said brightly. “It appears you are not the only gentlemen interested in acquiring this specimen that has been dug up from the Nor’loch mud.”